


31_Days Challenge: Autor

by BrightBlueInk



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon - Japanese, Character Study, Community: 31_days, Death, F/M, Family, Gen, Humor, Loneliness, Minor Canonical Character(s), Original Character Death(s), POV Minor Character, Picnics, Slice of Life, Unrequited Love, Writer's Block, Writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-03-23
Updated: 2007-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightBlueInk/pseuds/BrightBlueInk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of 31 fics based on 31 prompts from the community 31_Days on LJ that I wrote back in 2007, all focused on Autor, with the intent to flesh out his backstory and character development. Slightly AU because of a mistake I made while writing them (although it doesn't directly contradict the show itself, just supplementary material). Currently an upload-in-progress! Tags will be updated as I upload--it's been long enough that I don't remember all the tags that would be applicable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Blank Page

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this fic was "March 23. I'd want you beautiful and pale, the way I've dreamed you were." I believe this might have been the first Princess Tutu fanfic I ever wrote and published. Ahh, nostalgia.
> 
> Later chapters are inaccurate to some parts of canon according to the fan guides--at the time I wrote this, I wasn't aware of them. I'll note them later as they come up.

Autor sat down at his desk, smoothing out the paper in front of him. The desk was, of course, a perfect replica of Drosselmeyer’s, the exact type of wood measured down to the exact millimeter. He'd even left in the flaw in the upper-left leg of the desk that caused it to slightly wobble as he pressed down on it. The paper was made from ten-year-old reeds. It had taken him a lot of searching to find a paper-maker in the town that could tell him how old the reeds were, but it didn’t matter now that he had found it. The paper was smooth and clean, untouched. This was the moment he had been dreaming of since he was a child.  
  
He nervously adjusted his frog-shaped inkwell so that it was just the right distance from the paper. He couldn’t be too careful. He had worked too hard, researched too long, to mess up this moment now. He had heard the tree sigh, he knew he had. He only needed a little more evidence to prove his ancestry. He _knew_ he could do this. He carefully took off the lid of the ink well, dipped his duck-feather quill into it, and…stared at the blank page before him.  
  
Just a few moments before, he had so many words he had wanted to write. He thought they would come tumbling out of him, and he would be unable to stop himself from writing until it was done. He would forgo sleep and food for days if he had to, just to finish the story.  
  
But now, he stared at the blank page in front of him, and it seemed as though it dared him to put his pathetic words onto the page. _Go ahead,_ it said, _destroy this perfectly white surface with your attempt at a story._  
  
He swallowed and took his quill out of the inkwell, slowly reaching out with his hand to bring it closer to the page. His hand hovered over it, the ink slowly dripping to the tip of the pen.  
He jerked his hand back right before a drop of ink fell on the paper, causing the ink to land on his coat sleeve instead. The paper lay on the desk as blank as it had always been.  
  
With a frown, he put the quill back in the ink well and got up from the desk.

“Perhaps I need to drink some tea first.”


	2. Marching On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were only two people that went to the man's funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme for this fic was "March 24. forever, which is maybe the most horrifying word I ever heard of." I have lots more to say about this one, but I'll save that for the end.

There were only two people that went to the man’s funeral. One, a violet-haired boy with glasses, dressed in black. The other was the penguin music teacher from the local Academy – who was probably there more out of pity for his student, than love of the boy’s father. Herr Uhrmacher had been a man that was easy to miss – quiet, plain-looking, and overly interested in books and research. Those that did somehow notice the man often wished they hadn’t. He was eccentric, to say the least. None of the townspeople would ever say they were glad to see him gone, but very few would mourn. They had enough of the man’s ravings about stories and puppets.

The man’s son had not quite yet reached the level of his father, but the townspeople expected him to sooner or later. He already spent much of his free time in the library, so much so that the only students that knew the boy very well were those that worked there. Oddly enough, for a boy that seemed to be so studious, his grades were merely average.

Between the strange qualities of the man, and the strange qualities of his son, Autor, people were sure to talk. So Autor himself wasn’t at all surprised that as he ascended the staircase in the dorms after the funeral that he could hear the other students whispering amongst themselves. He got a few pitying looks from the nicer students, but for the most part they avoided his gaze and quickly walked away when he approached. That didn’t particularly bother Autor; he didn’t want to talk to them, either.

Silently, he went into his room and packed away what little he had taken with him to the school. His uniforms, a plain assortment of other clothing, carefully organized music scores, several books, and one earring that he had found stuck in between two floorboards as a child that he had never had the heart to get rid of. A few more odds and ends, and he had completely cleared the room of any trace that he had ever been there. He walked out the room and back down the stairs, carrying his bags and once again ignoring the whispers.

He didn’t care if he never came back, he decided. He wouldn’t miss the dorms, or anyone here, nor would they miss him. It was only a short walk from the school to his home, anyway. He had never needed to live in a dorm.

As soon as he reached his home, he unpacked his things and looked around. The house felt the same way that it had always felt. “Empty” was one word that came to mind. His father had never been concerned by decorations or knick-knacks. “Sterile” was another word, although the fact that it still felt this way surprised Autor. Had his father been so concerned with cleanliness, even in his illness? Or had someone cleaned the house after his death?

He walked through the few small rooms of the house, telling himself that he was checking to make sure everything was in order. In reality, it was so he could hear his own footsteps – partially to have assurance that this was real and not a dream, and partially so that he could cover up the sound of the large grandfather clock that had been ticking away since he had walked through the door. His first goal was accomplished – this was no dream. However, his footsteps only proved to make the ticking of the clock seem louder. Every step he took seemed to be in time with it.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

His father had been meticulous with making sure that clock was always perfectly on time. He had always been a very timely man. He got up at the same time every morning, had his meals precisely on the same hour every day, and went to bed at the same time every night. Autor, himself, had lived on schedule for as long as he could remember. He had never been late to class, ever.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

Autor decided that his footsteps were only making things worse, and sat down in a plain wood chair at the kitchen table. He carefully adjusted the candle holder until it was exactly at the center of the table. The house must have been cleaned after his father’s death. He would have never forgotten to do that himself.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

He would have come, if someone had written to him, or even if someone had come to get him. How was he supposed to have known what was happening? The Academy was often very caught-up in its own little world, so he might as well have been in a different town. Oh, they still heard idle town gossip every now and then, but Herr Uhrmacher had always been someone that was easy to miss, so if he hadn’t been noticed for a few days…

Why hadn’t the doctor written him, or sent someone to get him, or _something_? If he had known the day he left for school would be the last day he would see his father…

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.

Time marched on, even with his father gone, and it would continue marching on, even after he was gone. Herr Uhrmacher was an easy man to miss, but nobody would miss him. This caused an uneasy thought to appear in Autor’s mind: _If nobody missed him, will anyone miss me?_

The clock rang the hour. It was dinner time. He was behind; he hadn’t had anything to eat.

“He’s not here to remind me, you see,” he said apologetically to the clock as it finished its chime. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

He frowned, lowering his head and letting his eyes follow along the grain of the table. “I don’t particularly feel like eating, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the first part that's inconsistent from canon, which I suppose makes this group of fanfic slightly AU. I assumed that Autor seeming to have free reign of his home and somehow being able to have Fakir standing in his home for three days without eating or sleeping meant that he must live alone, which would make him an orphan.
> 
> Turns out I was wrong--I found out years after I wrote this that Autor's home is actually a hotel and restaurant run by his family (much like the real building his home is based on), which means someone else lives there, including probably his parents (unless he lives with an aunt and uncle or something, which I guess is possible). So the whole premise that he's orphaned, which a lot of the fics in this collection are based on, doesn't really mesh well with canon. 
> 
> It drives me a little crazy now. I might write a short story with a "fixed" version of Autor's family to better fit canon someday just to give myself the satisfaction.
> 
> Also, I still want to know how Autor managed to have Fakir standing around in his Drosselmeyer temple for three days without (apparently) anyone noticing.


	3. The World’s Friendly Lesson in Humility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autor enjoys feeling superior to those around him a little too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day/Theme: March 27. sometimes when the wrappings fall, there's nothing underneath at all
> 
> I used "Duck" instead of "Ahiru" in my earlier days of writing fanfic since I think it sounds better in English (and makes more sense for English fanfic). I've buckled to common fandom opinion and use Ahiru more often than not in fanwork for Princess Tutu these days, but a part of me still much prefers 'Duck.'

Autor smiled smugly to himself as he finished getting ready in the morning. His ascot was neatly tied around his neck, his jacket pulled perfectly straight. As for his hair, there wasn’t a strand out of place. He pushed his glasses up his nose as he took one last look at himself in the mirror, and then with a satisfied ‘heh’ he grabbed his book bag and marched out of his house and down the street to the school – making sure to keep perfect posture, of course.

As he joined the throng of students heading to their respective classes, he knew he stood out of the crowd because it was obvious that he had everything together. Most of the students had at least something that kept them from perfection. A female art student wandered past him, slouching and covering a small yawn. Autor could see one of the ballet students wandering around the campus– a brunette boy that had a tendency to be a bit slack-jawed. He stared up at the clock tower with a look that was either confusion or simple stupidity, rubbing at the back of his head. His shirt was also buttoned crooked, Autor noticed.

Over to his left, he saw (with some annoyance) that three of the ballet students were wandering in his direction.

“Oh hurry Duck, hurry!” The blonde one of the girls said, jerking her red-headed friend towards the school. “If you’re late, you’ll be put on probation again, or worse, you’ll be forced to MARRY Mr. Cat!”

Duck stumbled in the blonde’s grasp, squawking out a retort.

He smirked, shaking his head. Autor had always thought to himself that the name fit the girl rather well – she was so clumsy, she might as well have webbed feet. Why, just the other day—

TRIP. TUMBLE. OOF!

Sometimes, when you’ve got your nose stuck up into the air, it can be hard to see where you’re going. Particularly when you’re traveling down a slightly steep hill, and there’s a crack in the pathway.

Autor rubbed his head, dazed for a moment. He could hear a few of the students snickering. He quickly stood up, readjusting his glasses and trying to collect his dignity and his books, which had flown out of his book bag during his tumble down the hill. He did his best to ignore the laughter, as well as to look as though he didn’t care about the grass stain on his crisp white uniform pants.

His books carefully returned into his book bag, he continued on towards his class…but this time, with a much less smug look on his face.


	4. Volumes Upon Volumes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autor attempts to sort out his feelings for Rue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day/Theme: March 29. take my blood and my body for your love

_“It seems I’ve fallen in love with you.”_

_“With me?_

_“Yes.”_

_“…Enough to sacrifice your life?”_

_“Yes, if it is for your sake.”_

_She laughed._

Autor stumbled out of the building Rue had taken him into, his mind swirling with questions. What had he done wrong? He had done everything she had asked him to, answered every question without hesitating or stumbling over his words. In fact, he had surprised himself with how clearly he was able to speak, although his heart had been racing and his mind had been cluttered with disconnected observations about her.

(Her hair smelled like cinnamon, probably a shampoo. He felt silly for noticing that, but he did. Her expression was confident, her eyes filled with some sort of purpose, but the way she walked was hesitant. Why?)

It was all foolish, really. He couldn’t explain why he felt the way he did when she looked at him. He couldn’t explain how it had happened. Maybe he really was just being controlled by the story. But he didn’t feel like he was being controlled. What he felt wasn’t a lie. It didn’t feel like a puppeteer tugging on a string. He had felt controlled often in his life, and the feeling had always made him uneasy. But that familiar feeling of being pulled along by the story wasn’t there. Maybe it’s something the story had decided for him, but if it was, he had gladly gone along with it.

(Was he that lonely?)

He gritted his teeth at the thought. The idea was absurd. He didn’t really need any companionship. All he had throughout his life were books. And that was enough. Books never made people feel the way he was feeling now.

(But the books he had read had never kept him from noticing that there was nobody to ever bother him as he read them.)

He saw a glint of light out of the corner of his eye and turned towards it. Sitting on a rock nearby a lantern, he could see a figure bent over in deep thought. So, he had gone to Drosselmeyer’s grave to write? But he still couldn’t write, could he?

At least he could comfort himself in knowing that he wasn’t nearly as pathetic as Fakir.

(That was a lie, and he knew it. Even if he wanted to write down the swirling emotions he was feeling at the moment, he would have never been able to.)

He forced a smirk on his face, straightened up, and pushed his glasses up his nose. He’d forget about her.

_(I don’t want to!_ the voice in his head screamed, but he pushed it aside.)

 After all, he still had to help Drosselmeyer’s pathetic descendant write his stupid little story.

_(Damn him, what I wouldn’t give to be in his position. I’d write a story only for her, about a man that would take out his own heart for the love of a Princess. Maybe then she wouldn’t laugh. )_

_“And to think, at this moment I have volumes upon volumes that I want to write. It’s ironic.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time I wrote this, I had a personal theory that Autor really WAS a descendant of Drosselmeyer, and had a liiiittle tiny bit of Story Spinning powers, which is why he feels so certain after a bit that the Story isn't manipulating him at certain moments. I'm not sure how I feel about that now, but I do think that I'm not sure if you can explain away his knowledge of the powers as simply "research", and it does seem odd that Drosselmeyer would write him into the story when Drosselmeyer never even indicates that he knows Autor exists (plus Autor's confession worked AGAINST his plans). So, yeah, I'm not 100% certain if he's really related to Dross in canon, but I still think it's possible.


	5. Inspiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autor's thoughts on Fakir and his muse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day/Theme: March 31. it's the last midnight, it's the last wish

Autor slowly walked over to the bench at the back of the room and dropped down onto it. Fakir was once again seated at his desk, writing her story. Autor could see a variety of emotions drift onto Fakir’s face as he wrote – fear, pain, sorrow, but also love and hope.

 _He really does care about her,_ Autor thought to himself, smiling faintly. If he thought about it, it was strange, feeling attachment like that to a duck. But, when you live in a town controlled by stories, the idea that she wasn’t just a duck didn’t seem so strange.

Then, Fakir called her name, and tossing his pen aside, ran through the rubble that used to be the door to the room and out into the square. So this was it, then? The story had ended? Autor supposed to himself that he should get up off the bench at take a look outside, but for the moment, he simply wanted to rest. He had never imagined a week ago (had it only been that long?) when the grumpy descendant of Drosselmeyer walked into the music room and confronted him that this was how the story would end. Oh, he had planned to help Fakir from the beginning, but the version of helping he had seen in his mind’s eye involved something more along the lines of helping to hone Fakir’s mind and telling him what was the right ink to use. He certainly didn’t imagine throwing himself at a man carrying a large axe and tackling him through the remains of his door.

His poor, poor door. He looked mournfully at the pieces of wood scatted around the room. He supposed he was the one that was going to be responsible for fixing it.

And then there was the problem of the book man. He couldn’t just leave him there, or it’d be rather awkward when the book man finally woke up. But where could he take him? To a doctor, perhaps…

Well, he’d worry about that later. The man would be out cold for a few hours more, at the very least. Autor hadn’t realized until he sat down just how tired he was, and had been for days. Fakir probably had it worse (Autor had allowed himself to sleep a few hours during Fakir’s training), but it wasn’t as though he could sleep very well with all the excitement going on, anyway. His defense against the book man had used up more energy than he thought, as well. He really ought to go outside and check on Fakir and Duck, but…it wouldn’t be so bad to lie here for just a little bit, would it?

Autor slumped on the bench, eyes half-open. He noticed Fakir’s discarded quill on the desk across from him. Or, rather, a white blur he knew was Fakir’s quill—his glasses were still somewhere among the debris scattered on the floor.

Pushing aside the thought of the debris once again, Autor’s mind wandered to the image of Fakir bent over the story, tears streaming down his face, saying softly to himself the words that were flowing out of his pen and onto the paper. It was funny, Autor thought to himself. He had never thought of Fakir as the crying type.  Nor had he ever even considered the possibility that to write you needed to find inspiration in something…or _someone_.

And he certainly wouldn’t have picked a duck as an inspiration if he had. It was strange. Well, the entire town was strange. This entire situation was strange. Maybe life in general was just strange, for all he knew.

He closed his eyes. “It must be nice,” he muttered softly, “to have someone that inspires you like that. Even if she is just a duck. I wish I had someone like that.”

The clock struck midnight.


	6. Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autor remembers a happy memory from his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day/Theme: April 2: In the sunlight

One of the happiest memories Autor had was of a picnic. The sun was shining brightly that day, but there was a breeze that kept the day from being too hot. It had blown through his violet-blue hair, moving the strands of it out of their carefully-styled look and making his hair a giant mess, but at that age he was too young to care.

He must have been…six? No more than seven years old, for sure. He couldn’t remember the exact year, but he knew for sure he was no older than seven—his mother had been there. He could remember her holding the picnic basket and humming some silly tune or another. Her hair was the same color as her son’s hair, tied in a loose braid to keep it in place. His father, pale and serious, had pushed his glasses up his nose and warned her to watch her step, but when he thought she wasn’t looking he had allowed himself to smile, just a little.

Autor could remember sitting in his mothers lap, sandwich in hand, telling his mother all about the bugs and leaves he had seen on the way to the picnic. She had seen them too, of course, but listened carefully to every word, nodding her head every now and then, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the appropriate moments. At one point in his story, he had reached up to touch the sparkling earring she was wearing, but she swatted his hand away, telling him (not for the first or last time) that he shouldn’t grab at her earrings when she was wearing them, no matter how tempting it was.

After eating his food, he had gone down to the pond and watched the pollywogs swim, squinting to look past the sunlight glinting in the water. At one point, he borrowed an empty jar from his mother and dunked it into the water, catching a few pollywogs into it. He ran up to his parents and showed them, proudly carrying the jar like a trophy. This earned him one of his father’s rare smiles, which encouraged him to try to catch more. He threw his heart into capturing all of the pollywogs, not realizing that every single time he dunked the jar into the river to catch them, as many pollywogs would get out  as he put in. It was a never-ending game, but the boy didn’t care. He would continue to try to capture the pollywogs, no matter how many slipped through his fingers. He wouldn’t give up, and was still working to capture them in his jar when his father called for him to come back. He had refused, and ended up having to be dragged away from the pond, kicking and screaming and saying he still had more to catch.

“Sometimes you have to know when to change your focus, Autor,” his father had lectured that day. Autor had thought to himself, a decade later, that what he had said that day could have been one of the most ironic things he had ever heard his father say to him. He may have inherited his mother’s hair color, but his stubbornness was inherited from his father.

Autor looked once again at the sunlight filtering through the library window, idly fingering the pages of the book in front of him. He wasn’t really an outdoors person, but that memory was still fresh in his mind, and he could rarely feel in a bad mood with weather like this. Maybe when (if?) he had children some day he’d bring them out to the pond to catch pollywogs…

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!  
“Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey! Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey! Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey! Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey! Lovey-dovey-donkey-lonkey!”

…Or, he could just not have children and save himself from the years of headaches.

“ _Would you PLEASE be quiet?!”_


	7. Idle Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autor hears some girls gossiping about him and his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day/Theme: April 5: Whispers
> 
> I feel like this one's actually a little inconsistent with the last fanfic, and I'm not sure what I was thinking when I wrote it...but ah, well.

“There’s that weird guy again.”

  
“What’s his name?”

  
“Autor, or something.”

 

Autor didn’t even look up when he heard his name whispered. The moment he heard the word “weird” he knew they were talking about him.

 

“He’s always here in the library, every time I come.”

  
“Really? Most people don’t really come in here often.”

  
“He does. It seems like he’s always here when he’s not in class.”

  
“Odd. Maybe he’s just studious?”

 

‘Researching, actually,’ is what Autor wanted to say. But he knew there wasn’t any point in striking up a conversation with gossips.

 

“I doubt it. He’s in the music division like me. We don’t need that many books for our homework.”

  
“Oh…”

  
“Plus…”

  
“Yes?”

  
“The other day…I heard Mr. Penguin threaten him with the probationary class.”

 

Autor tensed. How did she know that? He had been called aside after class when the rest of the students were leaving…

  
He glanced up from his book for a moment to get a look at the girl who had spoken. Oh. Her. A brunette girl, one of the gossipy flutists in his class. Come to think of it, she had been dawdling in the hall when he came out of class that day.

 

“What? Really? No way!”

  
“Really! He’s been doing really terribly with his piano playing lately. I’m starting to think he doesn’t even practice at all!”

 

That wasn’t true. He had been practicing. Not as much as he used to, maybe, but he still practiced every day. It wasn’t like he’d given up on it…

 

“Wow! So what’s he doing in the library, then? Isn’t he worried about his grades suffering?”

  
“He’s probably too obsessed with his books to care.”

  
“Huh? What do you mean?”

  
“Did you see that dark-haired man that used to wander down by the south gate? Herr Uhrmacher?”

 

Now what? Why bring up his father?

 

“No, I don’t remember anyone like that…”

  
“Well…he was sort of quiet. Easy to miss. And he died a little bit ago, too.”

 

Seven months and tweleve days, to be exact. And Autor still wasn’t used to how quiet his house was.

 

“…But he was sort of weird.”

  
“Weird? How?”

  
“Well, if you _did_ talk to him, he would talk about…Drosselmeyer, and things.”

  
“You mean that author that used to live here a long time ago?”

 

The greatest that ever lived.

 

“Yeah. He wrote The Prince and the Raven and other books.”

  
“Oh, so…Uhrmacher liked those books?”

  
“You could say that. A better way to put it was that he was obsessed with the guy. And then sometimes he would go on about…puppet shows, or something.”

 

Marionettes, not puppet shows. _‘Everyone’s a marionette, Autor.’_ His father had said that the day his mother…

 

“That _is_ weird…but what does it have to do with Autor?”

  
“Well, Herr Uhrmacher was his father…”

  
“Oh…so those books…they’re probably…”

  
“Drosselmeyer’s? Yeah.”

  
“But why in the world would he waste his time with those books if his schoolwork’s suffering so much?”

  
“I told you…his father was obsessed with that guy. I bet he’s just starting to take after his father more than his mother.”

  
“Huh?”

  
“She was a pianist, too. I’m guessing that’s why he went into the music division in the first place.”

 

No. He went into the music division because he loved music. He wasn’t trying to be as good of a player as his mother was—that would’ve been impossible.

 

“So…she wasn’t as weird as his father, then?”

  
“Not at all. She was really beautiful, too.”

  
“How’d she end up with a guy like Uhrmacher, then?”

  
“I don’t know. Although they seemed a little distant when I saw them together. It was almost as if they had been fighting about something.”

 

…That was absurd. His parents loved each other. They didn’t fight any more than any other husband and wife. And how in the world did she even know what his parents seemed like together? She would’ve been a child when his mother disappeared. _She’s probably just repeating some idle gossip of her mother’s…_

 

“Did she seem upset when her husband died?”

  
“What? No, she was already gone.”

  
“Gone? She died, too?”

  
“No one knows. One day she just…disappeared. Although…”

  
“Hm?"

  
“If things were getting bad between them…Uhrmacher was crazy enough, that maybe…he had something to do with it.”

 

That’s it. Autor had enough of this. He couldn’t believe people were still repeating that ridiculous rumor. He stood up from his seat, grabbing his books off of the desk and walking towards the door. On his way out, he walked past the two girls that had been whispering among themselves.

  
“You shouldn’t talk so much in a library,” he told them, sunlight from a nearby window glinting off of his glasses. “It’s very rude.”

 

He turned and walked away, leaving the two girls staring after him.

  
”You don’t think he heard us, do you?”

  
“I doubt it. He would’ve said something earlier if he had.”


End file.
